“The smartest boy working for the Great Northern,” declared the visitor promptly. “That old ranch McCarrey and his men hang out in is a storehouse for liquors, I believe—and perhaps worse. I am having the place watched. But one of McCarrey’s closest friends has disappeared. Would certainly like to know what has become of Whitey Malone.”
It was just at this moment that the supervisor’s telephone rang. At this hour there were no clerks to answer the call. Mr. Hopkins excused himself and went into the booth and closed the door.
When he came out he was red with anger and his pale blue eyes flashed. His visitor appeared to overlook the supervisor’s disturbance. He said:
“This Whitey Malone has been McCarrey’s messenger and dirt-carrier. From the moment the shopmen struck, Whitey disappeared, so they tell me. I am going to send out a general order to apprehend the fellow wherever he is found. We will risk a little something. I understand he is really on probation and the magistrate might send him to jail if he appears not to be working.”
The supervisor evidently had his own matters to think of. He did not even grunt.
“I wonder if Ralph Fairbanks knows anything about Whitey,” considered Hopkins’ visitor aloud, and slyly watching the supervisor.
The question finally brought the latter to life. He flushed up to his bald brow.
“That fellow? He is perfectly useless. I will put a flea into the directors’ ears about him,” Hopkins snarled, with unusual show of his feelings.
The other got up, lazily stretched himself and nodded. “Just so. Matter of opinion, Mr. Hopkins,” he said. “Some of us think quite well of Ralph. You see, we have known him since he was a kid-hostler about the roundhouse. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” returned Barton Hopkins shortly.